ORDET (Carl Dreyer, 1955).
Even among the handful of directors whose work can be classed with
the highest artistic achievements, Dreyer stands alone. His films are
solitary and steep, visionary in ways that can be most exacting, each
film like a strange world unto itself. Ordet, his next to last
picture, takes as its subject the conflict between religion and spirituality
- belief versus faith, with faith being quite wild and eerie and forbidding
to the ordinary religious mind. It's not an easy task for a movie, but
Dreyer transforms the material into pure cinema.
An old Danish farmer (Henrik Malberg), devout and rather severe, lives
in a remote village with his sons and grandchildren. His oldest son
(Preben Lerdorff Rye) is quite mad, believing that he is Jesus Christ
reincarnate. The second son is an unbeliever, and the youngest son wants
to marry the daughter of the old man's religious opponent, a fundamentalist.
The family is held together by the care and compassion of the second
son's wife (Birgitte Federspiel), who is about to have a baby. A sudden
crisis plunges the family into doubt and despair.
There is an intellectual drama here (the film is based on a play by
Kai Munk that was famous in its time) which is greatly enhanced by the
director's creation of an otherworldly mood. The mundane reality of
rural life is rendered strange by the dreamlike quality of the photography,
and by Dreyer's camera placement and movement. There aren't many cuts
- often a scene will take place before us in one shot, with the camera
serenely gliding from one side of a room to the other. The frequent
use of long shots creates a feeling of awe. The effect is like a painting,
or an illuminated manuscript, in movement. In its precise composition,
this film reminds me of some of the earlier films of Dreyer's idol,
D.W. Griffith. He even uses wipes during a crucial dramatic sequence.
Not only does this work, it is heartrending.
How one takes the story as it progesses to its surprise conclusion
depends a great deal on whether one buys into the film's particular
brand of Christian mysticism. I definitely don't - so in that sense
the picture is problematic for me. It's a measure of Dreyer's genius
that Ordet moved me despite my intellectual reservations.
KANAL (Andrzej Wajda, 1957).
During the Warsaw uprising, a band of partisans is trapped by the German
army and attempts a daring escape through the sewers. You won't find
many war movies tougher than this one. On a minimal budget, Wajda created
a frightening replica of the moonscape that was Warsaw in '44. The bombed
out city, the dazed and exhausted soldiers, the ever-present sound of
tanks and guns heralding impending death, create a sense in the viewer
of how it must have been to live during that ordeal. This was only the
young director's second feature, but the dynamic camera movement and
the way he frames his shots have the brilliance of a veteran. When the
story goes underground, the nightmare becomes even more powerful, with
a feeling of tension and claustrophobia so vivid as to be almost unbearable.
Among several strands of characters, the dogged persistence of the lieutenant
(Wienczylaw Glinski) goes to tragic heights. In the film's central drama,
an impulsive corporal (Tadeusz Janczar) is wounded and must rely for
the first time on the strength of his lover (Teresa Isewska).
Although Isewska's acting is fine, her movie-star good looks are a
factor in the film that tends to break the spell. Carrying a machine
gun with one muscular arm, and supporting her wounded lover in another
as they stumble through the filthy depths of the sewers, her long blonde
hair and gorgeous face don't seem quite ravaged enough for the dramatic
context. Yet there is something marvelously iconic about this image,
and I couldn't help flashing forward to Linda Hamilton and Sigourney
Weaver in similar poses, except that in this case Isewska has the advantage
of depth and seriousness.
Kanal helped alert the world that there was a Polish cinema
to be reckoned with. Wajda followed it with a greater success - the
brilliant Ashes and Diamonds. On its own terms it stands as one
of the greatest movies about the horror that is war.
YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE (Fritz Lang, 1937).
A released convict (Henry Fonda), in love with his defense lawyer's
secretary (Sylvia Sidney), tries to go straight, but meets with rejection
in society, and ends up being framed for murder. This movie - a favorite
of mine and one of the director's lesser-known gems - represents for
me, more than any other, the feeling of that period known as the Depression.
The bewilderment and loss of faith in authority, the fatalistic sense
that no matter what you do, society will hold you down - all reflect
the darker side of the popular mood during that era. Although Fonda's
character is well-meaning, he's no hero by any stretch. His short temper
and desperation are all too human, while the world around him is mostly
brutal and uncaring. It's one of his more remarkable performances, I
think, with a hardness to it that is missing from a lot of his good
guy roles. The story was based in part on Bonnie and Clyde, especially
in the sequences where the couple are on the road trying to get to the
Canadian border to escape capture. Except, of course, that these two
are essentially innocents who are trapped into their deeds by awful
circumstances.
Fritz Lang once again demonstrates his mastery of the camera as an
instrument for the portrayal of extreme feelings. His minimalist aesthetic,
his use of shadow and expressive camera angles, are used to maximum
dramatic impact. There are hokey elements too - typical of 30s crime
drama - such as the kindly Catholic priest who tries to save the Fonda
character from himself, or the heroine's tough, sensible sister cautioning
her against her involvement with the ex-con. But the director's style
manages to transcend these limitations of genre. In its doom-laden atmosphere,
You Only Live Once foreshadows the post-war American style we
have come to know as "film noir." As usual, Fritz Lang was ahead of
his time.
THE NUN'S STORY (Fred Zinnemann, 1959).
Audrey Hepburn plays Gabrielle, the daughter of a famous French surgeon,
who becomes a nun in the 30s and works as a surgeon's assistant in the
Congo. Hollywood has always presented such a wishy-washy image of Catholicism
and nuns - see The Bells of St. Mary's, for example -
that the seriousness and craft of this film caught me by surprise. The
first third of the movie, which takes place in a convent, is especially
good. The film patiently follows Gabrielle through each phase of her
initiation into convent life. The pace is unhurried, the treatment is
even-handed, and the effect is fascinating. Instead of the usual sugary
sentimental music, the picture has a moody, at times even ominous, score
by Franz Waxman that reflects the real inner conflicts that would occur
in the heart of someone attempting to devote herself to the rigors of
a religious life.
It seems to me that this is the best work Hepburn ever did on screen.
For once she is not an object of romance, but a complex character striving
for meaning in her own life. Within her range, she performs marvels
in enacting a life that goes through quite a few different phases of
growth and varying beliefs. The Congo sequences don't have quite the
compelling interest of the earlier scenes in the convent. The patronizing
attitude towards Africans has certainly not worn well, although it's
consistent with the point of view of the nuns. However, a very young
and handsome Peter Finch is on hand as the rakish, unbelieving surgeon.
How refreshing that his growing regard for Sister Luke (Hepburn) is
only on the level of friendship - and no one tries to convert him, either.
In fact, the film's attitude towards belief is on the whole rather interesting
in that it never becomes dogmatic on either side, only caring to present
the nun's own struggle more clearly. The last part of the movie seems
a bit rushed, as if Zinnemann felt he was running out of time after
all his former patient attention to detail. But the final sequence and
shot, perfectly restrained and without music, is just stunning. Bravo.
THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG
(Jacques Demy, 1964).
It would seem that the American musical, especially its incarnation
in the color spectacles of the 50s, represents a moment in time that
can never return. Entranced by this genre, the young French director
Jacques Demy crafted this ornate tribute, directing and writing the
screenplay and lyrics. The music is by Michel Legrand. One of the amazing
aspects of this stylistic tour de force is that every line of dialogue
is sung. In other words, it's an operetta - not, however, a stage production
transferred to the screen, but a work designed for film, and composed
in wholly cinematic terms. Whatever you might think of the result, it's
like nothing else you've ever seen.
The tale is innocently romantic without a tinge of irony. A teenage
girl (Catherine Deneuve) is in love with an auto mechanic (Nino Catelnuovo)
and they plan to marry, against the wishes of her mother (Anne Vernon).
But he is drafted into the Algerian War, leaving the girl pregnant,
and during his absence her loyalty is severely tested by the proposal
of a charming and wealthy young suitor (Marc Michel). The drama is as
thin as could be if you look at it soberly. There is certainly no complexity
of character on evidence here. But I don't think that was the aim. The
music is meant to carry the weight, and to carry our emotions along
with it. Legrand's score ranges from a sort of light cocktail-jazz perkiness
to a lush 50s-style string orchestra ballad sound. Much of the dialogue
is really a recitative, which of course tends not to stay in the memory.
On the other hand, I defy you to keep the film's grief- stricken main
theme out of your head after seeing this movie.
Another marvelous thing about The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is
its look. Demy has all the houses and interiors painted in the brightest
colors imaginable - as eye candy goes, this is nothing less than spectacular.
He revels in the sheer artificiality of color. The photography (Jean
Rabier) and production design (Bernard Evein) transfix the attention.
Demy choreographs his characters' movements with uncanny precision,
and the camera glides through the sets with a fluidity and sense of
ease that belies how difficult the timing must have been.
Critical opinion on The Umbrellas of Cherbourg has tended to
be mixed. "Insubstantial" is a word one often hears. There's no denying
that the movie is like a creamy confection, with little nourishment
underneath the sweet musical and visual surface. But I don't see how
this is different from most musicals. The picture certainly has the
courage of its convictions. It takes a formal conception and follows
it to the very end, with a total sense of belief in its own mission.
I admire that, and in that spirit I opened myself to this movie. Music
can take the simplest dramatic elements that would never work normally,
and turn it into something that touches the heart. I was touched by
this film, and I don't mind saying so.
Chris Dashiell
CineScene, 2000
